


Hell Hath No Fury

by scriptura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Attempted Murder, Cheating, Cheating Mary Morstan, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Evil Mary, F/M, Gen, Implied Relationships, Jealousy, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, POV Mary Morstan, Paranoia, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7831084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptura/pseuds/scriptura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock’s voice is low and quiet. “You won’t.”</p><p>Oh, isn’t that sweet. He thinks saying that will keep this from happening, keep her from killing him. He thinks that he can call her “Mrs. Watson” and suddenly she’ll transform back into being the cheeky, supportive wife. The loving wife who bakes bread and loves cats and urges them to solve cases together and is just as stupid as she is expected to be. The kind of wife who can remember a room number or spot a skip code, but is blind to the way her husband and his best friend stare into each other’s eyes as if they want to drown there and never resurface.<br/>______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</p><p>What was going on inside Mary's head as she turned her gun on Sherlock Holmes? AGRA knows when Sherlock Holmes is fibbing, remembered what Sholto's room number was, and can spot a skip code; so what does she observe in the relationship that unfolds before her? What does she see in Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Hath No Fury

It was obvious.

Really, it was. 

People had speculated, they’d joked, they’d wondered about the detective and his blogger. But perhaps no one knows how true such things are. 

Well, people close to them know. Their landlady, the Detective Inspector, and other close friends made their own deductions after observing how close together the two would stand, or how they would giggle together with joy lighting up their eyes. or how they would stare into each other’s eyes, or - more telling - at each other’s lips. 

It was obvious with how Sherlock would at John when John wasn’t looking, his expression soft with adoration and longing. It was obvious with how John would lick his lips and puff out his chest in Sherlock’s presence, with how he acted like a peacock, especially when potential suitors tried to flirt with an uncaring or oblivious Sherlock. It was obvious with how they’d lean close together and giggle at an inside joke, and John’s eyes would darken slightly when Sherlock’s chuckle would go low and rumbling. 

It was obvious with how John had a string of girlfriends who had all left because he put Sherlock before them, cared about Sherlock more then about them (Sarah was John’s boss and friend, but she was easily goaded into gossip after a few friendly drinks with the new nurse at the clinic named Mary. She’d told Mary all about John and his girlfriends who were always overshadowed by one Sherlock Holmes). It was obvious with how John was more jealous of people coming on to Sherlock then he was with David being Mary’s friend, who he knew was Mary’s devoted ex. It was obvious with how they’d flirt seemingly without knowing it, calling each other romantic or expressing fondness for one another or giving each other telling looks. Or with how their casual touches would be prolonged a touch too long. Or how they always found excuses to touch each other. Even ridiculous and obvious excuses; Sherlock taught John how to waltz, for God’s sake.

It was obvious with how Sherlock worked to ensure John and Mary’s wedding was perfect, all the while clearly falling apart at the seams with separation anxiety and pining. No platonic friend makes dozen of serviettes in a bout of anxiety, or shows the bride a list of people who hate her, or promises the groom he’ll do anything for him, all the while with that soft and sincere look in his eyes. 

Yes, it was obvious. 

It was obvious to Mary. 

She knew from when John would wake up crying in the night, and go for a walk, and not want to be touched. She knew from how he’d drink at least once a week. She knew from how it’d been three years and he’d only just recently stopped seeing his therapist. She knew from how he constantly, constantly, visited that dead man’s grave and tended to the flowers he’d planted there. She knew from how on some nights he wouldn’t want sex or to even be near Mary, and would stare up at the dark ceiling with haunted eyes. She knew from how he’d sometime mutter his name under his breath during sex with the reverence of a prayer, and thought she didn’t notice. Or from how he’d sometimes do the same during his sleep. 

She knew from how she wasn’t introduced to his friends, aside from his sister (who didn’t like her). She knew from how he didn’t have any friends aside from his army mates and those he’d shared with Sherlock.

And she knew when Sherlock made his miraculous return to the living. She knew from John’s reaction, his anguish. 

“I’ll talk him round,” she’d said. It was a cover up, cementing her mask as the kind Mary, and a secret warning. John was her’s. She was the one who’d decide if he could see Sherlock. Ultimately, she decided to allow it. John would love her for being so supportive and helping him regain his lost friendship. Besides, if she was the supportive wife, it’d be easier to keep an eye on them both. 

And she knew from reading that hateful blog. From how he gushed over that damned detective. From how he wrote about him as if he were a Greek God. She knew when John shaved his mustache for him. For him. Months of bristly kisses and then his nibs turned up, and suddenly John shaved it. All because his Royal Highness hand’t liked it. It made her think of John wanting to kiss Sherlock, and her fingers had tightened around a gun that wasn’t there, but locked away in a secret safe. 

She knew when John was back to helping solving crimes, back to being his friend, and things were like they once were. 

Unacceptable. She was going to marry John. She would be Mrs. Watson, and John would belong to her. They would be bound till death. And Mary took those vows very seriously. 

He couldn’t have them both. She’d allow him to have Sherlock as a friend, but nothing more. 

But each day, she saw their devotion. Each day, she saw their loyalty. Each day, she saw their unspoken love. Each day, the tension between them grew. It was so close to snapping. They were so close to saying the words that couldn’t be spoken, to doing what couldn’t be done, and then it’d be all over. 

She’d kill Sherlock first. 

Yes, that was the solution. Kill Sherlock and the crisis was averted. Kill Sherlock and she would win. She just needed the right opportunity. A moment where no-one could save him; not John or his meddling brother. A situation where no one would ever suspect her. 

So when Mary hears that detective’s voice as she has her gun pointed at Magnussen’s forehead, advising her to change her perfume if she’s going to commit murder, she almost smiles. This is almost too perfect. She came here intending to kill Magnussen and be rid of the sword over her head, but now the moment she’d been waiting for has fallen in her lap. She wants CAM dead, but she wants Sherlock dead more. And here he is, giving her a wonderful opportunity.

Oh, but he thinks she’s Lady Smallwood. Stupid man. Magnussen corrects him, and she takes that moment to turn round and point her gun at Sherlock. The utter shock that encompasses his face is amusing, if a little piteous. He thinks he’s so brilliant, but he can be just as stupid as the rest of them. 

She asks if John is here. He - dumbstruck - stumbles over his words. She asks again. John is downstairs. Unfortunate complication, but she expected as much. Of course John is still sniffing after him like a lap dog. But she’s certain he won’t come upstairs until she’s done. He’s clearly tending to Janine, who she left passed out on the floor. 

“So what do you do now, kill us both?” Magnussen asks quietly. She smirks at him. Not tonight. Magnussen’s death will come later, when the time is right for him. Tonight she’s finally going to deal with Sherlock. That little matter requires all her focus. 

“Mary,” Sherlock is attempting to sound persuasive, placating. “Whatever he’s got on you, let me help.” Oh, Sherlock. That isn’t what this is about. She needs them both dead. But right now, she needs Sherlock dead more. Sherlock is of no help to her. He isn’t anything to her, but a dead man walking. He’d help her, she knows, because he loves John, and will do anything to ensure John’s happiness. But it is that love that has damned him. 

He tries to come closer, and her eyes flash. “Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I will kill you.” She’s going to kill him anyway, but he will stay put. If he tries to get closer, she’ll try something more creative than just shooting him, like shooting both of his kneecaps, watching him sink to the ground, and bringing out her knife to play with. 

“No, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock’s voice is low and quiet. “You won’t.”

Oh, isn’t that sweet. He thinks saying that will keep this from happening, keep her from killing him. He thinks that he can call her “Mrs. Watson” and suddenly she’ll transform back into being the cheeky, supportive wife. The loving wife who bakes bread and loves cats and urges them to solve cases together and is just as stupid as she is expected to be. The kind of wife who can remember a room number or spot a skip code, but is blind to the way her husband and his best friend stare into each other’s eyes as if they want to drown there and never resurface. That sort of stupid. The same stupidity of naive wives who cry with mascara running down their cheeks and whimper to their silly gaggle of friends that they never expected their husbands to cheat, that they never saw it coming. But not Mary. She’s clever. She knows it would only take one more lingering brush of hands, one more tongue swiping across lips, one more locking of eyes, one more soft smile that make eyes crinkle, and It would happen. 

John would come home early in the morning thinking she’d be asleep. He’d have excuses: Sherlock had a case on…he needed my help…for old times sake…we wrapped up around three in the morning so I slept on the sofa… His clothes would be rumpled. He’d smell of fresh soap. Not their soap. The same soap that Sherlock used. His hair would be damp and mussed. He’d avoid her eyes and would not get into bed. I’ll make a cuppa, since we’re both up. Won’t be out so late again. He’d think she wouldn’t know exactly what happened. He would be stupid enough to not know that she’d be able to see who fucked who or how long ago it was or if John slept afterwards. If they slept in each other’s arms. 

One night, before she Mrs. Watson, she’d thought of it. As he and Sherlock were out on another God-damned case and she was left alone in the flat, she’d thought of it. The scenario had formed so perfectly in her mind, she could practically see John crossing the threshold of their flat after the deed was done. That bastard. Did he really think he could have them both? Did he actually believe Mary would share? He belonged to her. Sherlock Holmes didn’t get waltz back into John’s life and take him from her. He didn’t deserve that chance. He should have stayed dead. If he knew what was best for him, he should have stayed dead. 

It was that night that her blood had caught fire. And her finger twitched, ached for her gun. Instead of quenching the fire by sending the detective back to the grave, she’d dulled the inferno with sex. Not with John, of course. He didn’t deserve her that night, and he wasn’t at home besides. No. It only took one call to David (he was still desperately in love with the facade of the sweet nurse she’d created, silly man. He thought because she’d pretended to cry in his arms, or smiled at him, or fucked him, that they had something like love). She had pushed him down onto her and John’s bed and they’d fucked. She was in no mood for soft whispers of love or gentle touches, she wanted something angry and rough and with no trace of affection (she possessed none in the first place). David had misconstrued it to be passion. So many people only saw what they wanted to see. 

In her blind rage, and in his desperate eagerness, they’d forgotten protection. A mistake? Initially, yes. But she soon saw that a child could be quite an advantage. If John thought she bore his child, he’d love her forever. Children helped keep marriages together and John had always wanted a child. She would be the woman who gave him one, and David would be none the wiser. So she allowed John into their bed. And she waited. And when the pregnancy test result was positive, she’d smiled and held her tongue. Wouldn’t it be so much more fun to let their little consulting detective figure it out? 

“No Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock had spoken softly. “You won’t.” Oh, but she would. She will. She is Mrs. Watson, and that is Sherlock’s damnation, not his saving grace. 

He knows he’s dead before she pulls the trigger; she can see it in his eyes. She sees recognition there. He recognizes her not as Mary, the illusion given life from the name of a stillborn, but who she truly is. She’s the woman who is going to kill him. She’s the woman who has killed again and again and again, and felt no remorse as she washed the blood and gunpowder from her hands. He recognizes her as the same sort as Moriarty or Magnussen. Another Shark. Mary. Moriarty. Magnussen. 

Pulling the trigger is easy. It’s comfortingly familiar, even. Just like old times. 

The gunshot rings throughout the room. Those observant blue eyes grow wide and lose their focus. Agony bursts within them as the bullet rips through his middle and lodges there. He starts to sway forward, but then begins to fall back. Ah, clever boy. He knows the bullet is still inside him and is trying to keep himself from dislodging it and bleeding out completely. Clever boy, but stupid boy, too. She’s never failed at killing someone before. She certainly won’t fail when it really matters. 

He doesn’t see sorrow, or remorse, or apology as he begins to fall, though she apologizes out loud anyway. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. Truly am.” They would have lied to her. Both of them. Sherlock Holmes is a liar. He lied for three years. A lie is what he deserves to hear before he dies. 

“Mary?” He sounds disbelieving still. His voice is that of someone waking up from a nightmare and not knowing they’re awake. And he falls, for the last time. The name he utters isn’t real, it’s a name of death that she stole for her mask, her facade. It seems fitting, then, that Sherlock’s last words are the name of a corpse, the name of someone who was never alive in the first place. 

She could have shot him in the head; she could have tore her bullet through his precious brain and utterly wreck it. But that would have been an instant death. Too quick. Too painless. Sherlock deserves to be aware of what is happening. He needs to know he is dying and feel every second of suffering. He needs to be sorry for the suffering he would have caused her. He needs to regret ever rising from the grave, and know that this time his body will truly rot under six feet of dirt. No surprise returns. No interrupting proposals. No tearing apart her marriage. No taking John away. No ruining things like he always does. 

When she turns back to Magnussen, the phone now in his hand is ringing an ambulance. Ah, the phone he’d dropped on the floor when she made him put his hands up under the threat of her gun. Of course he would call an ambulance, Sherlock is of no use to him dead. Well, no matter. Ambulance or no ambulance, Sherlock Holmes is dying, and will soon be dead. 

She whips her gun across his face -the crunch of her pistol crashing into CAM’s sneer is so satisfying - and he’s out cold in a flash. She’ll kill him later, when the timing is better. After all, he lost a pressure point with Sherlock. 

With one more glance at Sherlock - his blood is staining his too tight shirt a deep crimson and it’s lovely - she leaves the way she came. John’s downstairs, but Sherlock is dying. He won’t know she was here. He’ll die before John reaches him, or die as John watches, or die in the ambulance, or in the hospital. So many options, all with same result: John is her’s. He’s truly her’s, now. 

And when the ambulance arrives, and Sherlock is carted off to the hospital and is finally, finally out of their lives, John will be there; and he will grieve his death, of course, and he will weep. But Mary will be there to console him, like the good wife she is. 

She is the best thing that has ever happened to him, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by me watching Gone Girl before bed, and wondering what it would be like to see Mary's point of view of the events that unfolded in series three, specifically the confrontation and attempted murder in Magnussen's building. What would Mary Morstan think of the unspoken romance between John and Sherlock that we the viewers see? And thus, this little thing was born! So I was really sleep deprived when I wrote this, but the idea was stuck in my head and I wanted to write it down, and so I did. It might not be my best work, but I enjoyed writing it, so I hope you enjoyed reading it!
> 
> If you'd like to read this ficlet/drabble thing on my tumblr here it is: http://witch-lock.tumblr.com/post/149261995370/it-was-obvious-really-it-was-people-had
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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